A Paris Tradition
by Framling
Summary: The Headmaster and his deputy have selected their DADA professor... but where is he? Werewolves are a Paris Tradition, after all. Pre-PoA fic. In the current chapter, Snape startles a cow.
1. Prologue

A Paris Tradition

AN - thanks go to Nuala for providing information about the zoos of Paris.

Professor McGonagall was quiet for a long while as she mulled it over. It wasn't that she was against the idea at all - to the contrary, she thought it was excellent, and after all the Ministry _had_ been after them for a decision for some time now. At any rate, even Dumbledore's third choice (a witch who had graduated six years ago, and who had been rubbish at Transfiguration, as she recalled) could hardly help being an improvement over the previous year's. His first choice, however, was a bit of a special case. Undeniably competent (after all, she'd had a hand in his education), a proven communicator, and certainly he was a pleasure to converse with. She couldn't help feeling, though, that this would be bound to cause trouble.

Finally, she spoke.

"Albus, you can't be serious."

"I assure you, Minerva, I am quite serious. Can you think of a single wizard who is better qualified?"

"The governors will have a collective aneurism." Privately, she wasn't at all opposed to the idea of half of the governing board of Hogwarts keeling over, but she felt she had to be the voice of reason. On the other hand, whenever Dumbledore's eyebrows tilted in quite that fashion, experience had taught her that reason was about to bend itself into entirely unreasonable chains of logic. Her suspicions were confirmed when Dumbledore reclined into his armchair and dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand.

"Nonsense. The 1912 adjustment to the Hogwarts Code very clearly states that 'any wizard who has demonstrated both practical competence and theoretical knowledge in the field to be taught is eligible to teach at Hogwarts'."

His deputy headmistress was perfectly aware of that, and (though she kept it to herself) was of the opinion that the eligibility requirements had already been stretched to admit a certain Divination professor. Not that Divination was a proper subject in any case. Still, though -

"Albus, you know perfectly well that that particular adjustment was made to allow Muggle-born wizards to teach at Hogwarts, not -"

"Werewolves?"

"Well, yes."

"Hogwarts has never denied a job to anyone because of an illness, Minerva. I recall that when I was first Headmaster, the Herbology professor had a case of chronic Gastric Guffawing - kept breaking into belly laughs at the most inappropriate times. Terribly sad. Biscuit?"

"I somehow doubt," she said drily, accepting the most innocuous-looking item on the plate, "that the Board is going to view growing sharp teeth and claws once a month on the same footing as an occasional attack of the sillies."

"Lupin's disease is his own business. We already know he is quite capable of being discreet about it, and which precautions to take. We are fortunate to have an excellent Potions Master who is familiar with the recent advances in the relevant areas, and there is the," he chuckled, "Shrieking Shack. I really must find out which of the Hodsmeade residents gave it that name. I rather like it."

"Shrieking Shack aside, Albus, I shall assume I can take that to mean that the Board is not going to know."

"Precisely, my dear."

She reflected that Albus Dumbledore was possibly the only person in the world who could call her 'my dear' and not be immediately (if temporarily) transfigured into something unpleasant.

"There is one more thing, however. I don't know about you, but I personally have not seen the man since shortly after... since shortly after the Potters were killed. He could be anywhere."

The Headmaster did not answer this immediately, but rather rummaged through a pile of parchment on his desk and produced a Muggle newspaper, which he proffered to McGonagall with a flourish. She took it and turned it over once or twice before Dumbledore retrieved it and opened it to a page near the back. The article itself was tiny - one three-inch column - and tucked away next to a colourful advertisement for a Citroen sedan. She read it once, then again, and then reached for the most sugary-looking biscuit on the plate before speaking.

"This could be entirely unrelated. We have no way of knowing that he's in Paris. Besides... that article looks as if it could have been written by that ridiculous Skeeter woman. 'A Paris tradition', my foot. Werewolves are found everywhere. Any third year should know that. I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Granger already does!" She very much wanted to exclaim 'Muggles!' in exasperation, but refrained, choosing instead to take a sip of tea and reread the offending article a third time. She pursed her lips and spent some time tapping her fingers against the edge of her teacup, thinking. Finally she looked at him.

"Albus, are you sure?"

"Not a shadow of a doubt, Minerva. A little bird told me. And I have a feeling he possesses other qualities which could be useful this year."

Dumbledore had certainly never heard McGonagall use _that_ particular word before. He wished her a quiet goodnight after agreeing to meet with her again the next day to discuss travel arrangements to Paris, and settled back into his armchair for a quick pre-bed snooze. The newspaper he left open on the desk, next to an empty cup of tea (thankfully free of any ominous omens) and some crumbs.

A Canadian Werewolf in Paris?

Paris - Zookeepers at the Zoo de Vincennes have noticed a marked change in behaviour among their collection of British Columbian Wolves, currently on a year-long loan from a breeding program in Vancouver, Canada.

The zoo staff has reported increased agitation and noise at the time of the full moon once a month, and cleaners have reported what seems to be blood spattered onto pen walls, with no apparent source. "We are currently analysing the substance... and our team of veterinarians are keeping a careful watch on the wolves," says Christophe Brodeur, the zoo's manager. "It's probably a result of the change in environment."

A change in environment? Perhaps. But this reporter remembers a classic movie... werewolves are a Paris tradition, after all!

The Zoo de Vincennes is open Mon-Sat from 10-6.


	2. Chapter One

1Chapter One

In a tiny flat overlooking a small courtyard containing a dustbin, several broken glass bottles, and a used condom, Remus Lupin opened one of his eyes. Then he opened the other one, which seemed to take an unfair amount of work. There was a tapping on the cardboard that covered the hole in the wall which had been a window in a previous incarnation. Muttering to himself that it was the middle of the night, and why couldn't owls be diurnal, he peeled himself off the ageing couch, stubbed his toe on the elderly coffee table, and shambled over to let the dratted thing in.

He removed the drawing pins holding the cardboard in place, and blinked twice as the mid-afternoon sunlight struck him, followed in short order by a large grey owl carrying a letter with familiar green ink. Remus relieved the owl of its burden and patted the pockets of his trousers.

"I'm afraid I don't have any treats for you. How about a scratch under the chin instead?" The owl gave him a withering look and took off through the hole in the wall.

Remus replaced the pins and opened the letter.

_Dear Mr. Lupin,_

_As you may be aware, the position of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is currently empty. After careful consideration by the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, it has been concluded that you are an excellent candidate. Should you accept the position, rest assured that any special circumstances will be taken into account and provided for. Living quarters and board are included in the salary, which can be discussed further if you should wish to_.

_We hope to hear back from you as soon as is convenient._

_With Best Wishes,_

_Albus Dumbledore (Headmaster),_

_Minerva McGonagall (Deputy Headmistress)_

Had Remus been very much heavier, the settee would not have held up under his suddenly boneless collapse. He sat staring at the letter for a good while, unable to read it properly sue to how much his hands were shaking.

Hogwarts? Flashes of memory ambushed him in little pieces: James running a hand through his hair in a feeble attempt to achieve the 'ruffian' look he'd heard was very attractive; sitting in a corner as Sirius and James earnestly discussed whether or not it would be possible for Mr. Moony and Mr. Wormtail to look even remotely presentable at the Yule Ball, and deciding that it would be hopeless without much intervention; Peter - poor Peter- chewing on the end of a quill as he struggled over an Arithmancy problem before James pointed out that he'd forgotten to invert the strength of the spell before trying to find its opposite.

A crater, surrounded by so many wards it was blurred, three days after his life had been taken away from him. He hadn't done a thing to stop it happening. Not one thing. Indeed, he'd been blissfully unaware until Professor McGonagall had Apparated into his flat (the one Lily had reinforced with Charms so that the wolf couldn't damage anything) and said 'Lily, James, and Peter are dead. Black is being sent to Azkaban. I'm so sorry, Remus'. It had stuck in his mind as the very first time she had called him anything but 'Mr. Lupin', and he had listened numbly as she explained that Harry was alive, and that the Dark Lord was gone, and it would be all right now, and she really was very sorry, and after she left he had stood in the very same place in his kitchen, sieve in hand, staring at the place she had been, until his legs simply wouldn't hold him any more.

He felt a bit like that now. He'd have to refuse. Couldn't protect his best friends and a baby? He couldn't be trusted with a school full of children. Nothing for it but to owl back and - bother. The owl had left, hadn't it? Flown right out of the window in a huff. Fine wizard he was, not to have a treat on hand... or in the whole flat, come to think of it. When was the last time he'd been to the grocer's? It had been a while, he thought. The last of his hard-earned Muggle francs had gone to pay the rent a week and a half ago, and M. Brodeur wasn't due to pay him for three days yet. He wasn't about to use a fireplace, either - he suffered from the terrible affliction of not being able to say 'no' to somebody face-to-face. It was his night off, so he'd be able to get outside the city and find a wild owl in a barn somewhere. He could probably 'borrow' his downstairs neighbour's bicycle - the man never used it, and would be too drunk to notice if it was gone for a few hours.

Remus spent the remainder of the afternoon drafting a reply. Several dozen possibilities were thought through, mulled over, and eventually discarded before simplicity won out, and he carefully set quill to parchment.

_Dear Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall_,

_It is to my sincere regret that I must decline your generous offer of a teaching_

_position at Hogwarts, for reasons that I would prefer remain private. I wish you every _

_success in finding a suitable candidate._

_Yours,_

_Remus Lupin_

There. Short, concise, to the point. It looked innocent, sitting there on the coffee table, black ink on creamy parchment. It was even fairly honest, in a non-disclosure sort of way. He rolled it neatly, tied it with the bit of shoelace that was all he could find in the way of ribbon or string, and took it downstairs. As he passed his neighbour's flat, he heard snores, and felt a flash of relief which promptly vanished when he opened the courtyard door to reveal the bicycle, standing in a puddle which seemed to be growing deeper by the minute. He tucked the letter more securely under his shirt, straddled the bike and set off. Five minutes later, he had to stop to set the rusty chain back on the gears.

Some time later he stood dripping wet under a tree in a park, having caught sight of the familiar lump of an owl having a snooze in the crook of a branch. In one hand, he dangled a mouse he'd caught earlier in the hopes that a well-bribed owl would be more likely to do him a favour. Not at all happy with the situation, the mouse squeaked, which had the happy side-effect of attracting the owl's attention.

Remus solemnly proffered the panicking mouse. The owl deigned to descend to a lower branch level with Remus' face, revealing that it was the Hogwarts owl who had stopped for a rest before crossing the Channel and returning to the school.

"I've brought you a mouse, as you can see. Would it be a terrible imposition on you if I were to ask that you carry this letter to the Headmaster?"

The owl looked at him.

"It is _very_ important, I'm afraid. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't."

If the owl had had eyebrows, it would have raised one skeptically as it contemplated the matter at hand. Coming to a decision, it shot a talon out and skewered the mouse, which shut up in short order. Remus politely turned his back while the owl ate (owls are very fastidious creatures, and it is nearly impossibly to eat every bit of a mouse neatly), and, when the lack of crunching noises indicated that the mouse was thoroughly no more, surrendered the letter to the owl's safekeeping. He regretfully left the shelter of the tree, retrieved the bicycle and pedalled off.

When he finally reached his block of flats, he replaced the bicycle in the corner, listened to make sure his neighbour was still snoring, and plodded back up the stairs. He set his alarm (work tomorrow, he thought, and then the full moon night) and fell facedown to the couch, closer to passing out than falling asleep.

AN: I forgot to mention that this is a first draft, being posted in the hopes that it can be improved. So if anyone spots anything (from typos to 'hey, that's physically impossible' to 'that sentence is confusing') you're welcome to point it out. My feelings won't be hurt, especially since it would mean that you're enjoying the story enough to care!

Sainte Matthew, Wild Totodile, and Hippy Gypsy, I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it so far. I hope this chapter lived up to the prologue?


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Something long and dusty reached over Martine's left shoulder and relieved her of part of her burden. It jauntily waved a stolen bit of hay in her face before retreating, to be followed by wet chewing sounds. She struggled with the rest of the bale, which had been shoved off balance by the questing trunk, nearly dropping the hay before another pair of hands grabbed it and helped her push it up to the tree-height manger, designed to simulate the act of plucking food from branches. Several other bales already dotted the dusty elephant enclosure at Paris's Zoo de Vincennes. Turning, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled gratefully at her companion.

"Thank you,Rémi." Then she spun on her heel and shook her finger at the offending appendage. "As for you, greedy, I ought to stop feeding you altogether! You weigh as much as... as much as..."

"An elephant," Rémi suggested helpfully in slightly accented French.

"An elephant! You, you... pachyderm, you!"

Appropriately chastised, the elephant in question snuck another bite of hay from the bale above Martine's head and ambled off, munching happily.

Aware that she'd finished on a weak note with the elephant, she rounded on Rémi instead. "And _you_! What on Earth are you doing here so early? I know for a fact you work overtime every day you're in, and I don't know what you do on your days off, but you don't seem to be sleeping at all!" Rémi had lost his mild grin and was beginning to look distinctly worried. "You've got bags under your eyes I could carry my shoes in, and don't tell me you're squinting like that because it's bright!"

" -Martine, I-"

"You're going to curl up on the couch in the office, that's what!" A thought struck her. "You're not ill, are you?" She grabbed his hand and started herding him quickly away from her delicate elephants, ignoring his feeble protests that no, he wasn't ill, he'd just not slept well at all the night before, no, he didn't need to go home, honestly. She ignored him handily, and made him precede her through the door to the office. She sat him down on the couch, told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to set foot to floor for at least two hours or she would feed the elephants something which would make his usual manure detail very unpleasant, and left, feeling a mild sense of triumph.

Martine liked the quiet Englishman. He worked hard, was always pleasant, and didn't complain about a job with bizarre requirements and odd hours. She worried about him, though. He never looked well-fed, and often looked exhausted. The man was downright skinny! She'd spent an afternoon once trying to figure out how he managed to keep up with the physical labour his maintenance and cleaning job required, and had thrown up her hands in frustration and gone on to the more rewarding task of analysing diets to see if the macaques' nutritional needs were being met.

She stopped at the wolf enclosure and had a look inside. The male deigned to flick an ear in her direction, but the rest of him remained sprawled in the shade, the very picture of insouciance. The females were snoozing at a respectful distance. She stopped at the wolf enclosure and had a look inside, idly noticing that an 'a' was missing on the sign, which read: "British Columbian wolf (Canis lupes columbianus) - on loan from Vncouver, Canada". The alpha male deigned to flick an ear in her direction, but the rest of him remained sprawled in the shade, the very picture of insouciance. The other wolves were snoozing at a respectful distance. As she watched, one of them yawned. The little boy standing next to her gasped at the sight of the long canines, and ran off to tug at the sleeve of a woman who was presumably his mother.

"What's going on with you, hm? Silly wolves. Christophe's asked me to come in early tomorrow to see if I can find out what's going on, you know, and we've added some more video cameras. No more blind spots. I hope you'll behave yourselves tonight. I've got work to do, and I can't be spending time worrying about you. Don't think you can get away with things simply because you're guests. Do I make myself clear?" The male sat up and applied himself vigorously to relieving the itch behind his left ear. Martine nodded. "Right, then."

In the office, Remus was having difficulty following orders. It wasn't that he didn't want to. His joints all ached, his head felt disconnected from his body, and his thoughts were trying to outrace his pulse. The sofa was comfortable, with arms the perfect height for resting a head on. It smelled faintly of animals and hay, which was both comforting and maddening at this time of the month. The day before a full moon night, Remus' skin _itched_ terribly. He squirmed. He needed to be out _doing _things, not sitting still with nothing to take his mind off of the coming transformation. Martine meant well, but she didn't _know_. He plucked at a thread that was coming loose from his sleeve, temporarily absorbed in seeing how much he could pull before the hem came down. He stopped himself before his sleeve fell apart completely. He needed to cut the thread and stop it from catching on anything. His searching eyes lit on the desk, focusing on a stack of papers with a sticky note on them. "To be filed", the note said. His eyes widened as he read the title on the first sheet. "Visitor numbers from... three years ago! File under... 'S', I suppose, for 'statistics'. Ah yes, here are some older ones."

When Martine came back to check on him two hours later, at the end of her shift, she found Rémi fast asleep on the floor surrounded by piles of paper, leaning on an open file cabinet. She frowned slightly - he couldn't be comfortable like that, surely. She reached to wake him up so he could move to the couch, but stopped herself. He really did look exhausted, and at least he was asleep. She plucked a cushion off the floor and managed to get it between his head and the cold metal of the cabinet and grabbed a leftover jacket from the hooks by the door to tuck around his thin shoulders.

She stood back to admire her handiwork and frowned. There were more creases on his face than there had been that morning, drawing down the corners of his mouth. As she watched, his lips twitched, and his eyes flew open, looking blindly around the room in a panic. The jacket and cushion fell to the floor as he scrambled to his feet. She grabbed his arms to keep him upright as he slipped on a sheet of the paper, and he looked at her and bared his teeth in a snarl.

"Rémi! Rémi, it's Martine!" She shook him slightly as her voice took on a pleading tone. "Look at me Rémi, please, it's Martine, you're all right, it's all right, _please_, Rémi, look at me!"

"Who?" Slowly, his face grew calm again, and his eyes focused on her. The fear was in his voice this time. "Martine? Martine are you all right, I didn't hurt you, did I, I'm so sorry!"

She cut him off. "No, Rémi, you didn't hurt me, just startled me a little." She peered at him suspiciously. "Are you quite certain you aren't ill?"

"No, no, I mean yes, I'm certain I'm not ill. What time is it?"

"What? It's nearly six o'clock. The zoo is closing."

"S-six o'clock? No, no, that's not right, it can't be."

Martine could see the seeds of panic starting to sprout again. "Yes, Rémi, six o'clock." Focus his thoughts on something else, that was what she had to do. "Your shift starts in five minutes. Would you like some help with the elephants?"

"No! I mean, no, thank you. That's quite all right - you must be tired. I'm all right, honestly. The work will help me clear my head. Look, there's your coat. Why's it on the floor? Here you go, it's a lovely colour by the way, don't forget your handbag, have a good night!"

With that, Martine found herself deftly deposited outside the office, the jacket very nearly on, clutching her purse in one hand, and the door closing behind her.

"Goodnight to you too, Rémi. No, the door didn't hit me on the way out. Yes, I shall see you tomorrow, Rémi." She sighed and glanced back at the door worriedly, then shook her head and left. The man was an adult and perfectly capable of looking after himself, she told herself sternly. If he was ill, he would tell her; he cared about the health of the animals every bit as much as she did. Nobody worked with the animals if they were sick. Shrugging, she took the jacket off. It wasn't hers - it had been in the office since January, and didn't seem to belong to anyone.

Arriving home, she set her alarm for four o'clock before she forgot. The thought that Christophe would be well-advised to pay her some extra money for the overtime crossed her mind briefly, but her thoughts quickly returned to the wolves themselves; had such behaviour ever been documented before? She checked the time - she had some hours before she would be able to sleep - and pulled some old animal behaviour textbooks from her bookshelf. It wasn't particularly recent information, but she didn't much want to put her shoes back on and walk to a cyber-café. She curled up on her bed to read and had reached a section on dominance struggles common to most canine species when the book fell from her hand and her eyelids drooped.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Thanks as always to **Quiva**, who is a beta-reader extraordinaire. Any extant mistakes are entirely mine.

**ShnugsAllAround**, - I'm glad you're enjoying it. Thanks for the rating tip - as you can see, I've upped it. :)

**WildTotodile -**thanks. And if Lupin hadn't turned down the job, this would be a very short story, even by my standards!

**HippyGypsy** - I love your name. :) I'll do my best to keep it up!

**ArwenLumos - **wait and see ;) I don't have any plans to make any romantic relationships explicit in this fic (you can interpret it however you'd like, though), so if you aren't into romance, no need to worry.

**Mac1 -** Thanks for the compliment on how Lupin's coming across. I'm always worried about characterisation.

Thanks, all, for reading. In the next chapter, Snape Startles a Cow.


	4. Chapter Three

1

Chapter Three

A rumour took wing over the North Sea and made its way Southward. _Escaped_, it said. _Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban._ Aurors were pulled from their beds. _Escaped_, people whispered to each other in the street, and hurried home to lock their doors. _Sirius Black. _Security at the Ministry was doubled. A check was made of every cell in the wizarding prison, and every cell which should have been occupied was. Save one._ Loose, _said the rumour. _He's on the loose._ Flourish & Blott'shad to order a restock of _Wards, Traps, and Alarms_ by Nico Cognito, the famed Italian Auror who, it was believed, had trained the legendary Alastor Moody. _Lock your doors_. Even the Muggles were notified. _A mass murderer escaped from a high-security prison today. His whereabouts are unknown. Local police believe him to be armed and highly dangerous. Do not attempt a confrontation under any circumstances._ The picture of a man with long black hair and madness in his eyes flashed from thousands of television sets, from millions of newspapers. _Sirius Black has escaped_...

"... From Azkaban, Severus." The man was positively purring, Snape decided as he watched the speaker pace across the deserted moor. "Nobody has ever achieved such a thing. It is meant to be impossible."

"I am well aware of that, Lucius. Every witch and wizard over the age of _six_ is aware of that. Is there a _reason_ for your interrupting my supper and summoning me here on such short notice, or did you merely wish to state the obvious?"

Lucius Malfoy swished to a halt, face inches from Snape's. "Where is he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't be dense, Severus. I know perfectly well that you were at Hogwarts with Black. Where would he have gone?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you will recall, Lucius, Black and I were hardly friends. I'm surprised you don't recall the indignities he inflicted on everyone in Slytherin House. But then, I suppose you were too wrapped up in showing off your wealth to his _cousin_ to notice much else, weren't you? Rather pathetic, really."

"You should have made a bit more of an effort, Severus. The heir to the House of Black would have made a powerful ally. That was _not_ my question. Who _was_ Black close to? Where would he run?"

Snape allowed the barest hint of a smirk to hide at the edge of his lips. "He was an extremely good friend to James Potter, as I recall, and to Peter Pettigrew. Shame how that worked out."

"They're all _dead_." Malfoy's tone was one of genteelly restrained impatience.

"Not all. Remus Lupin is still alive. He and Black were close at Hogwarts, and Lupin has a dark side. I wouldn't be surprised if the two of them are still allies." Snape cursed inwardly. He'd divulged too much information. Should have stopped after naming Lupin. No information at all would have made Malfoy suspicious, but Snape should have stopped at the minimum, regardless of personal feelings.

The veil over the impatience was thinner now. "And where, may I ask, is Lupin?"

Snape shrugged slightly. "I haven't a clue. The man's been missing for nearly twelve years, now. I thought you had an extensive network of... _friends_. Perhaps one of them might be able to help you. I've told you everything I know. Am I dismissed? There's roast beef waiting for me. Cold, now, naturally." He was rewarded with a sniff and a glare, and the welcome sound of Lucius Malfoy Apparating away. Immediately he Apparated himself, to the cow pasture behind his modest cottage, landing in front of a cow who gave him a puzzled look and lumbered off in search of a place to sleep that was free of sudden people.

.Snape peered at the rising moon and swore - it was full. Lupin would be weakened and vulnerable over the next couple of days, unless he had access to a proper healing facility, which Snape doubted.

Muttering the word which would allow him past his wards, he strode quickly - Severus Snape never _hurried_ - through the door and into the kitchen, past the roast beef covered in congealing gravy, and knelt in front of the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the box hidden in the coal scuttle.

"Albus Dumbledore's office, Hogwarts," he snapped, and plunged his head and shoulders into the flames as soon as the colour changed. "Dumbledore! Albus! Where are you?"

The Headmaster's armchair was empty, and the desk was suspiciously tidy. "_Dumbledore!_"

One of the portraits on the wall cracked an eyelid and answered crankily. "He's gone on holiday. Go away."

Snape gritted his teeth. "Very well. Tell me, is the Deputy Headmistress available at all, or shall I ask to speak to the Head House Elf?"

"She's on holiday, too."

"What? Together? Where are they?"

"Well, it's Hogwarts business, isn't it? They got an Owl this afternoon from the man they wanted to teach Defense this year, saying no. What was his name? Loony? Lunenburg? Lu-something."

"Lupin," chimed in a witch with a very large ruff and matching hat.

"Right, thanks, Lupin, and Dumbledore looked a bit unhappy, and McGonagall folded up the letter in that snippy way she has, with sharp creases and all, and tucked it in her pocket, and Dumbledore mentioned that they couldn't talk to this Lumpy - "

"Lupin," said the witch.

" - _Lupin_ fellow for two or three days anyway, and it had been a while since he'd seen Paris, and he packed up a few things into a carpet bag and they left."

"I see. If either of them should return, would you be _so_ kind as to mention that I need to speak with them on an urgent matter?."

"Yes, yes. Now go away. Just because we're dead doesn't mean we don't need to sleep, you know."

Snape fumed. He would now have to stay in and around his cottage until Dumbledore contacted him. To do otherwise would be sheer irresponsibility. He _could_ track down the Headmaster in Paris, in theory, but he had a niggling suspicion that his own whereabouts were being monitored, and to go haring off to France so soon after his conversation with Malfoy might tip his hand.

He might as well finish his supper. He drew his wand and trained it on the roast beef. A quick "_Calefacto!_" was enough to reheat it, though the gravy remained congealed and lumpy. He started to eat it anyway, and felt a bit foolish when he realised he was keeping an eye on the fireplace, as if Dumbledore's floating head was going to appear in it soon. Muttering, he took his plate into the sitting room and finished his supper there instead, out of view of the fireplace.

"Bloody _werewolf_."


End file.
